Wrapped in Purple Ribbon
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: A gift is sometimes just as much for the giver as the recipient. A little Season 11 Christmas piece.


**Wrapped in Purple Ribbon**  
K Hanna Korossy

There was no Charlie this year to spring Christmas gifts on them. No Kevin to coax out for some Tofurkey—Sam's idea—or a turkey-shaped ice cream cake: Dean's. Bobby and his home were long gone, and Garth and his wife had completely disconnected from the hunting world. Cas was there but, well, not exactly in the mood to celebrate. So there was no reason for them to act like December 25th wasn't just another day.

Except Sam had noticed his brother sneaking shopping bags of food into the kitchen earlier in the week. The radio in the 'pala had been mysteriously set to the local station that played Christmas songs all month. It wasn't long before Sam, too, found himself buying a little potted pine and a string of lights at the local drugstore. His argument of _"We can plant it outside later, like a memorial tree,"_ had met with Dean's pointed _, "Right, as opposed to the thousand other fir trees out there." "Pine." "Whatever, Sam."_

Dean didn't seem to actually mind, though, even if the last tree they'd had had been bought by Charlie, and so the pine had ended up in the corner of their TV room. Castiel broke away from Netflix long enough to solemnly point out that the Christmas tree tradition had druid roots. Both Cas and Dean derided Sam's waste of food in making a popcorn chain. But along with the odds and ends Sam had found to hang on it were a few that didn't come from him.

Maybe if they didn't do Christmas officially, they could pretend it just happened.

It wasn't that they were feeling holiday cheer exactly, or at least Sam wasn't. The Darkness loomed over him, his "visions" were as cryptic and troubling as they had been ten years before, and the brothers had lost so much since. But it was also the first time in years neither of them was addicted or influenced, dying or hiding something just as awful, suffering together or apart. And, well, maybe their standards had seriously declined, but that alone seemed worth celebrating.

Dinner was awesome—Sam was pretty sure his brother's hands were as gifted with kitchen tools as they were with any other—and even Castiel had come out to join them. He shuffled back to his room after, still recovering from the effects of Rowena's attack-dog spell, but Sam thought at least he didn't look so pained anymore.

And then it was just the two of them.

He helped Dean clean up—one of these days they were going to invest in a dishwasher—then offered to mix some eggnog. Dean muttered something about "lethal" and "never again" and shooed him out, so Sam wandered into the TV room and put on a Bing Crosby Christmas record. There were fireplaces in a few other rooms, but the comfy couch was here, so Sam brought up the Yule Log on the TV and settled into the couch.

Dean joined him a minute later, handing over a tall glass of frosty white. And, okay, maybe not choking on the rum wasn't a bad thing.

"No game?" Dean asked, throwing his feet up on the coffee table.

"No games on today. You wanna try ESPN?"

Dean shrugged. "This is fine." He tipped his head back, humming under his breath to Crosby crooning "White Christmas."

Sam took a breath. An earlier half-baked idea had returned, and he grappled with it, unsure. His thumb slid around the edge of his glass as he looked at Dean sideways. The Stone Number One he'd thought more than once that he'd lost for good. Another breath. Yeah, okay. "Hey…" He saw Dean recognize his tone and grimace, and hurried on. "I just…I want to ask you for something. A Christmas gift."

Dean's head came back up, and he gave Sam an almost panicked look. "I didn't think we were gonna—"

"No, I know. It's not that kind of a gift." Sam cleared his throat. "I want five minutes."

When Sam didn't immediately say more, Dean's eyebrows went up. "Five minutes of…? Your emo music? Driving the car? Time alone with your laptop?"

Sam rolled his eyes but immediately went serious again. "I just want to talk to you. For five minutes, without being stopped, or-or argued with, or you walking out. Just five minutes."

Dean's face barely twitched, but the change was instant and profound. Moats dug and filled, walls fortified, hatches battened. Dean both wary and worried.

Bing switched to "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" in the background.

"It's not anything bad," Sam said quietly. "I promise."

Dean didn't seem reassured. His knuckles were white around his glass, back wedged into the corner of the couch like he could maybe burrow his way out of there. His struggle was visible; in another setting, he would've stood armed, feet planted.

Sam shook his head; this was counterproductive. "Forget it, I—"

"Okay." It came out like ground glass, Dean clearly having to push it past his teeth, but he'd done it.

Sam didn't insult him—or take the risk—by asking him if he was sure, just nodded. He kneaded a hand against his thigh for a moment as he choose his words.

"Okay. Okay. Uh. I know you believe actions matter more to you than words. But my actions haven't exactly been…" He faltered a moment. "…shown how I really feel, and my words…"

Dean raised an eyebrow again, pointed in his silence.

Sam huffed. "What I mean is, I know I'm not gonna…convince you or prove anything to you in one night. But I just want to say this so it's out there, okay? Because I always think, you already know, but then I do something and hurt you and—"

Dean opened his mouth.

Sam slammed his palms through the air in a single quelling motion. "You promised. Five minutes, right?"

Dean clenched his jaw, then held up four fingers.

"Okay, four minutes left. I got it." He took another breath, looking away from his landmine of a brother, and found courage away from those piercing eyes. "You have always, _always_ been the most important person in my life. Even when Dad was alive. Even when I was with Jess. You were always the voice in the back of my head that told me what to do, and no matter who we lost…" He broke again for a second, thinking of Jess, of Bobby, of Charlie and Kevin and Pastor Jim and Dad and the young Mary he'd met too briefly. "…I always thought, at least I still have you."

He felt Dean shift on the end of the couch, but didn't look up to see his expression. Crosby was now singing "Faith of our Fathers."

"And…I know I said I wouldn't save you, and that I didn't want to stay brothers if it meant we'd keep…needing each other like this, like that was more important than the world." He was surprised to taste salt water on his tongue, and wrinkled his nose to ease the prickle. "But I would, man." He risked a quick look up, just long enough to see Dean still as stone. "Whatever it takes. Screw the world."

He laughed to himself. "I guess we really have a few times, right? Lucifer, the Leviathan, the Darkness. But it was still worth it." Sam's mouth twisted, bittersweet. "You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Dying or…or living."

He took a quick swallow, the rum burning his throat. Or maybe it wasn't the rum. "So…yeah. I'm gonna do my best to show you, too, but I don't say it enough." He dashed a hand quickly over his eyes. "And…sometimes I think we need to hear it. I need to, anyway, but…I think you do, too."

He filled his lungs and finally lifted his chin to full-on face his brother. "So call me a girl or whatever now, I'm done. Five minutes up. Thanks for giving me that."

Dean wasn't staring at him like he was going to explode anymore, but Sam couldn't quite tell what was behind the hooded eyes. His throat was working with emotion, but his face was a blank. Even as Sam studied it, his brother looked away.

"I'll Be Home for Christmas" started up in the background.

He started when Dean suddenly launched to his feet. "I'm gonna get some more 'nog. You want some more 'nog?" His voice was thick and sandpaper-rough.

Sam shook his head, watching him hurry out of the room. Well, that was…both a better reaction than he'd been expecting and a more disappointing one than he'd hoped for. It wasn't like he'd thought Dean would reciprocate: Sam was always the one who wanted to talk about how he felt. But sometimes he did need to hear it, too. At the least, he'd kinda hoped he wouldn't scare his brother away.

But Dean was soon back with a full glass, and he resettled on the sofa instead of taking the easy chair farther away. As the record finally reached its end, Dean grabbed the remote, and they sat back into more-or-less easy quiet to see what was on TV. And if Sam was pretty sure his brother glanced over at him a couple of times, he never actually caught him in the act.

It was in the middle of "It's a Wonderful Life," Cas between them watching the angel Clarence with furrowed brow, that Dean reached across the back of the couch to swat Sam's shoulder. "Hey."

He tore himself away from contemplation of whether Old Man Potter ever paid for his actions. "What?"

Dean nodded at nothing in particular, his eyes quickly back on the TV. "You know… Me, too."

He almost asked _what?_ again, before he realized. And hid his stupid smile, the warmth in his belly, because Dean was probably still watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Sam cleared his throat, nodded. "Hey, you wanna go to the Pink Pony after this? I bet they're open today, and I haven't gotten you a gift yet." He was pretty sure strip joints didn't close for the holidays, and while he wasn't particularly itching to spend Christmas in one, he'd meant what he'd said.

Dean shook his head. "No. I'm good." He looked over, holding Sam's gaze for a few moments, nothing hidden this time. Then he smiled to himself, shook his head once, and reached for the popcorn bowl.

And that was it, nothing more said until Dean started up about how hot Donna Reed was. But, Sam realized, that was just fine.

Because, really? He had always known.

 **The End**


End file.
